The Vampire Marcel
by Endearth
Summary: A dark, epic tale of a vampire in the realm of Azeroth, on a journey to seek answers of his dark origin. [Updated!]
1. Prologue

**Prologue**

The night beckons.

Quickly and almost without sound, he rises out of a pile of smooth cloth. Moving out of the tent, yet again with only a slight rustle, he basks himself in the moonlight, suddenly filled with comfort and confidence.

Pausing shortly, he notes the other human tents in the area. His senses are acute and true, providing him knowledge of every little movement in his vicinity. A slight tilt of the head of an owl, a light leap of a grasshopper- he revelled in his superior instincts, for he had grown quite accustomed to human abilities.

Human abilities? I _am human._

And although he could not see them through their tents, he could feel them, breathing heavily in their sleep, some snoring like vulnerable critters. He knew his escape would be uninterrupted.

Abruptly he rushed off into a direction, leaping over freshly fallen logs and giant tree stumps, his small frame and light figure making untraceable tracks in the thick grass. With uncanny speed and grace, he entered the safety of the trees.

A dream perhaps? Most likely. Feeling but not seeing…knowing but not comprehending- yes, of course, it was a dream. What else would it be?

He continued to make through the trees, leaping between trunks, jumping from branch to branch and avoiding pitfalls like a predator in its own hunting zone. And then, as abruptly as he started, he stopped on top of a branch, crouching low like a tiger, surveying the clearing ahead.

His memory verified several times that it was the correct place. Self-assured, he sprung highly into the air with powerful muscles, and landed squarely but remarkably softly in the middle of the sandy path.

Standing up straight, he exhaled with a hint of relief.

"Nicht 'glade, my dear sisters," he whispered.

Before he had finished his last word, the shadows in front of his eyes melted and began to warp slowly. Around him the pure, white moonlight gave sight to a small gathering of elven women, dark-skinned and battle-ready. They were unlike the elves you see everyday, in that their skin bore a purple hue, and their general facial features were not the same. Their garments, armour and weaponry were also different. Several of them mounted giant panther rides, which at the sight of this warrior made faint, content gestures.

"Nicht 'glade, great Leçram," a heavy female voice said from a distance in the small crowd. Slight shuffling noises of armour and equipment…as they gave way to a less heavily-dressed, but more elaborately-clad female. Riding her own distinctive-looking panther, she bore a solemn expression that commanded respect.

From behind her, she produced two gigantic, curved blades. Representing half-circles, the giant arcs were heavy but delicate, purely metallic, and filled with carven ornaments, which when given the shadows from the surrounding forest, were impossible to make out.

It was well eroded and worn, with many notches in the blades. And with age, the runic patterns on the blades no longer held its original beauty. It was as if… the whole artifact was a testament to the too many battles this warrior has seen.

If truth be told however, the actual structure of the weapon was…a bit farfetched, more like some decorative weapon shown at military parades. Ones that never make it to the real battlefield, one might conclude. For one, its range is unrealistically short. Nevertheless, a low, indiscernible aura seems to emit from the aged weapon, hinting something more.

She bent down on her steed with a posture that was almost ritual-like, extending the two blades to him. A little to his surprise, he accepted them slowly but fluidly, with an equally-practiced, yet somehow awkward, movement.

The grooves in the thick metallic handles fitting unbelievably well, he extended the blades into the star-filled sky, and swished the weapons through the air a few times- testing the blades, and his strength. The others watched him closely, their feline companions paying close attention as well.

Finally satisfied, he dropped them to his sides.

"It _astonishes me," he began, while examining his blades, "how a warrior can survive a battle, while its mount cannot."_

There was deathly silence.

Directed at the commander, it was criticism from a feared warrior and a respected leader, and as such, its effect was severe.

Her face reddened as if slapped, and silently, she thanked the darkness for its protection in front of her fellow sisters. A thousand emotions rushed up into her mind at that instant. _This is the first thing he has to say? I've sacrificed… so much for the sisterhood, and tried to be strong in front of them, while you were gone, and then you come and tear down my…after those desperate times?_

But being the responsible spiritual leader that she was, (and especially because she was a spiritual one) she could not break down, no matter how much she wanted to at that moment.

"If you were referring to my tiger companion," she said, trying her hardest to sound composed, "she has suffered a minor injury, _while hunting by herself, and is currently resting in camp."_

Noting her hostility and the severity of his tease, he offered an amused chuckle, his worn, stern expression melting into a big, carefree grin. For a moment there, to the priestess and the others, he seemed young again. In that instant, he was that young elf back at home, hunting fish instead of demons, being able to run wherever he liked, instead of having to carry the burden of battle armour and the responsibilities of a commander.

That moment faded quickly. Nonetheless, he still kept his mirth.

He jumped up onto her panther, seated himself right behind her, embraced one of her burning cheeks with a hand, and touched her other with his lips. He then wrapped his powerful arms around her slender waist, partly to secure himself on the ride, and partly for his own amusement…all this time, his blades missing her unprotected skin, narrowly but knowingly.

Shocked but heart-warmed by the sight of their priestess being treated so, they smiled at the image of their two leaders acting like young innocent lovers. The onlookers erased all minimal doubts they had of their great Leçram. At the sight of his sudden humour and compassion, they realised how important such warmth was to them at these trying times.

"Let us begin!" he said, in a cheerful voice. "The night is young, but time is always running out for me. So, if you don't mind, gracious leader…"

"Alright, sisters, let's move out," she ordered, her anger slowly fading away.

And they began, with the priestess, Leçram and their panther at the centre front, leading their crowd of warriors. 

"It has been quite some time," he said with a knowing smile, turning to face the young-looking female walking beside him. "But, as the ancients say, it is when a girl is in love that her beauty truly blooms. And, right now, you are looking splendid. And I do truly mean it. So, who's the lucky fellow in my little Shanders' favour?"

He was breaking rules in the Night Elf code for battle. Warriors were supposed to be at their optimum performance, following orders without a word. But hey, waves upon waves away from home, who's taking down names?

"Don't tell him Shanders," the priestess cut in. "Never trust a blind, old man with anything."

Shanders, along with the few younger women, couldn't keep it a smile.

He suddenly leapt off the panther, turned around, and faced the others, walking backwards slowly to accommodate for the movement of the group.

"You see, _this is what I come back for, time after time," he said, with a heavy, dramatic tone, and his arms outstretched. "For the feeling of family! __Not for the companionship of the wild, nor the satisfaction of splitting a demon open…and not even for the welcoming radiance of moonlight. At this stage of my battered existence, these simple pleasures have become worn and tattered. And as you said, I am old, and my time here is overdue."_

A few uncomfortable shuffles.

"Why must you batter yourself so, Leçram?" said she (the only one there ranked enough to address him by name). And to get back at him for damaging her image as a priestess, she added, "you are a renowned warrior, with abilities that are envied by many great elves of your same status. You should be proud! Not sober. And what of your acting wildly all of a sudden? Has being hu…"

She clicked her tongue, and hastily corrected herself. "Has being away from women turned you mad?"

He eyed her for a little. Then he replied in a calm voice, "I do whatever I need to to boost the morale of my units. As a commander, I understand hopelessness and what it can do to soldiers. I will do whatever it takes to fight it and keep us in good shape, even at my own expense. Everyone needs something to keep them fighting, I believe.

For me…I do not return simply because of that insignificant elven order. Let this be a lesson from an old man. It is the feeling of famine that keeps me sane; in the end, only famine is everlasting."

"Umm…how do you mean?"

"Sorry? Didn't I say… Oh, primitive human tongue!"

**_The Vampire Marcel_**

**_by Endearth_**

"…and then she fell _face-first into the sponge cake!"_

Immense laughter, especially from Leçram, as he was about the only one who has not heard it a dozen times before. But they all enjoyed a good laugh, partly because the character in discussion was known and loved by all of them, and partly because he was with them now, and the sound of his chuckle was too good to resist. Even the priestess lost herself to the waves of laughter.

Have you ever heard the laugh of a female Night Elf? It is soft, quite pleasing and melodious, like the morning song of forest birds.

"Hey, that's not funny!" the targeted female accused. "That herb cake took us hours!"

At that instant, the male Night Elf abruptly stopped his chuckling and stared hard at her. Quickly, the others also stopped and, feeling a little frightened, looked for an explanation in his blank expression. The young female who had uttered the triggering sentence grew extremely confused and terrified, and with her eyes, begged her priestess to save her.

"Hold your positions," he whispered. Despite the volume of his request, they all stopped dead in their tracks.

Thinking the tease was too much this time, the priestess felt very sympathetic for her young sister.

"Leçram, don't," she pleaded kindly, a bit startled herself. "Sisters, let us continue. It is getting late."

But they did not move an inch, only looking up to her in confusion. Now she began to feel a bit annoyed.

"That was a direct order from your-"

"Dispatch your sentinel," he said to the nearest panther-rider. Without question, she quickly released it to the closest tree.

It took a moment, but undoubtedly the answer came, although quite unpleasantly.

One by one, they were revealed. They looked like spirits, almost transparent. A lot of them had long, brown fur covering their disfigured bodies. Some were walking very closely to the Night Elves, just a few feet away from them. Too close for comfort.

At first they did not notice they had been discovered, as most of them were walking with their heads down. But then, Leçram pushed one of them to face him. It looked straight at him with bright, yellow eyes. Then, a kick in its chest sent the thing off, squarely into a tree chunk.

Perhaps it was the creature's initial scream that alerted them all, or perhaps it was the grotesque sound of bones being crushed that started it.

With its internal systems out of order, what came out of the creature was a series of barely audible crackles.

"We have been discovered, kill them all except the one with-"

Leçram landed one foot firmly against its chest, and with a swift metallic sound, swept his head off.

"It's a demon ambush!" the priestess said, taking charge. Her panther reared as she held out her bow. "For Elune, my sisters!"

In response, one of the warriors arched her body back, readying her disk-like weapon, her panther bending back in perfect unison. She then hurled the spinning ring of blades in an electrifying motion. The deadly projectile caught a small-framed creature, driving it into the soil. It managed a low, gagging noise.

Slow, wicked laughter. This one, slightly bigger, pounced towards Leçram, who noted its mistake. Its angle of entry was too vulnerable, and with ease, an elf nearby shot his eye with a thump, throwing its body back in midair.

And so on, the elven unit dispatched them quickly and without casualty. They heeded it as a warning however, for these were only scouts, and stronger opponents lay in wait for them ahead.

They were all slain except one. The priestess shot at it, but with its long, reversely-bent legs, it sprinted away quickly enough to dodge the shot, the silver, glowing arrow dropping to the earth, along with its trail of shiny dust specks.

Without thought, he chased after it with uncanny speed, and the rest of them charged after him.

It was almost in his blade's reach when it suddenly disappeared. There was no delay. In a blink of an eye, it vanished. He slowed his pursuit to a walk.

When the rest of the troop had caught up to him, they waited patiently for him to catch his breath.

"Shall I dispatch a sentinel?"

"No, it is gone by now."

A gush of wild.

"Come, let us continue. And keep up your guard."

They needed no further warning. As they moved, each one of them commanded total concentration on their surroundings.

"Priestess," an elf said. "Come see this."

They circled around a thick, lush bush. The plant was a known species, but the speck of fur on it was even more familiar.

He lightly nudged the bush with his foot.

"It's hollow," he reported. And bending slightly, he headed through the strange entrance, gently brushing the leaves aside.

"Priestess, you want us to demount?" one of the riding soldiers confirmed.

"Actually, stay here until we return," she instructed. She then hopped off her ride and signalled her animal companion to follow one of the mounted warriors for the time being. "Hide yourselves in the shadows, in case more concealed enemies return. Avoid combat as best you can." 

"Yes, priestess."

"The rest of you, come with me."

It was a dark tunnel hollowed from thick bushes, and it spanned for quite some time. They felt nervous and treaded through quickly, the dark leaves brushing their heads, knowing they were quite open to any ambush that might occur. None came, to their fortune.

When they emerged, the sight that met them was quite unexpected.

Literally everywhere, small monkey-like creatures with auburn coats roamed around peacefully. It was a secluded but large domain, with rolling hills and gentle slopes, and a carpet of lightly-coloured grass on top. Some of these animals were lying around lazily, some were chasing one another around bushes and plants, and many were wandering around on trees.

These giant, thick trees restrained much moonlight from lighting this place, and so only a dim view of the surroundings was possible.

There was a fountain near the centre of this unknown sector of the forest, and the faint moonlight coloured the water quite beautifully.

On a cliff facing the ocean shore was the silhouette of a delicately-shaped female.

The elves were almost in awe. They hadn't thought such beauty was possible here. Sure, they respected the wild the same way they did back home. But they had always regarded the island as a barren place, demon-infested, filled with threats. Quite visibly, they were proven wrong.

Slowly and almost trance-like, the small group of elves approached the female, hoping for an explanation.

Before he could say anything, she turned to face him, the shadows from the trees above concealing her features.

"And then I asked him, 'Master, how shall we confront them this time?'" she said with a faint, gentle voice. "And then he responded, '_you will confront them, and you shall face them…as themselves.' So, the humans will fall, and after them, you."_

She took a step forward, and the moonlight revealed a disfigured mouth, filled with rancid fluids and sinister teeth. Then, her eyes glowed a fearsome red, shaped with delight.

She thrust her hideous claw forward, and an overwhelming force erupted from the ground and knocked all of them back.

"You will fail, succubus," Leçram said, quickly getting back on his feet.

"I do not think so, stubborn Night Elves," she said, pronouncing 'Night Elves' with a controlled hatred. 

The monkeys were not monkeys at all. Some dropping from trees, some leaving whatever they were doing, they hastily closed in around them. A closer look at these creatures revealed that they were servants of evil, with abnormally large and powerful hands, and eyes that had small, red pupils. Their teeth were that of wolves, and their faces were coarsely-haired, making them look mean and vicious. They were an imitation of nature, an imitation of life.

"We will use them against themselves, and deceit is the greatest weapon against their kind. You know this."

"Against who? What are these 'humans' you speak of, fiend?" Shanders blurted, unable to keep down her frustration. This provoked a string of hideous cackles from the demon.

"Of course, you have not told them yet, priestess! Oh, but it makes it so much more pleasurable!" she said beneath her gruesome smile. "_Humans, my dear! Pink-skinned creatures who are no more than pigs…but who will ultimately be your defeat. Their minds can be bent and snapped like little twigs…it is a beautiful thing."_

"You will fail," he said again, ignoring her.

"Oh? But who can resist a figure like this?" she exclaimed, laughing. Her cloak then slipped off to expose a naked, human female body. Most of the elf-women looked off to the side. Leçram, along with the priestess and a few others, kept their focus on her, though.

It was well shaped, and true to her word, it was probably irresistible to every mortal man.

Then her nude body warped into a fully-armoured figure.

"I will fail? We will see, demon hunter. The masquerade has just begun."

At that, he chuckled slowly. Then he lowered his head and grunted.

Flames erupted from his arms, then covered his entire body. Flickering and flaring dangerously, he blazed like a torch, his scorching body lighting up the surrounding darkness. He had invoked the spell of ancient demon hunters, known to some as Immolation, and it turned his body into a living torch.

He scanned his fellow warriors, who returned his glance with uneasy looks, and he noted that the coats of the monkey-like monsters were beginning to ignite, the ends of their hairs catching bright orange. Lastly, he returned his fiery glance to the succubus.

Moving his powerful arms and legs into a battle stance, the flames swishing by, he exhaled.

"Then let's dance."

She plunged her claw out again, and once more, a shockwave began to crash towards the demon hunter. However this time, he cast his hand out just in time, and the magic she was channelling exploded inside of her, his action depleting her of her spell. She gave a scream as blue flames evaporated from her body, draining her of her abilities temporarily.

Using this as a distraction, the priestess took out a scroll.

"By Elune, stars grant us protection from-"

Before she could finish the chant, one of the furred creatures lashed out at her, tearing away some of delicate skin from her arm.

She yelped in pain. "Beware! Be wary of their speed!"

Enraged, a nearby elven warrior shot at its landing spot, and the arrow took the monster just before it could land and react.

"Fight, my warriors!" he said in attempt to inspire his group. With an extended motion, he cut down four beasts in one rapid sweep, to further encourage them.

Despite his bravery, it was looking grim for the elves. They were outnumbered and taken by surprise. No longer did they fight with the same unity and battle prowess that they had demonstrated earlier. And, they paid for it.

A warrior would fire (and land) three arrows in the blink of an eye, but still be overwhelmed by the waves of demons. Even with their small size, these beasts took down extremely well-trained warriors, just by their sheer numbers, each taking a swipe of their prey like hungry piranhas. Eventually, enough of them would gather around a warrior's legs or shoulders to bring her down to the ground. And from there on, it was a horrid sight.

It didn't help any further that they were separated. The demon hunter was fighting elsewhere, trying to execute outrageous but effective stunts like spinning 360º while airborne, attempting to slash 7, 8, 9, or even 10 of them at once.

But there was a speck of hope for these battle-ridden ones.

"To me!" the priestess commanded, unable to wield her bow from her arm injury, but was protected by a few fearless warriors.

The remaining survivors tried to inch towards their leader, firing and cursing simultaneously. But they did manage to gather into a small cluster.

"You must protect me while I call upon the help of Elune," she explained. "I cannot be interrupted in the process, or all might be lost."

Luckily for them, the fiery presence of the demon hunter took a toll on these monsters, as they were constantly being charred by his flames. As a result, they could not maintain their previous ferocity in combat.

She began her chant, clutching her necklace with the symbol of her moon goddess Elune on it. She mustered all her concentration, trying to push away the burning pain from her wounded arm. Inside of her mind, she looked for that passage, that special pathway to her goddess. 

She was searching, looking, hoping…but it did not come to her yet. The throbbing pain tried to pull her back out, but she resisted. How were her soldiers holding up? Were they suffering? Dying? She pushed these questions back. She had faith: the goddess will be with her.

As if in response, a doorway emerged in her view. She lunged towards it, and a white light surrounded her. She returned to reality.

The same intense light glowed from her eyes. A ripple shook the very air around her, and beams of light rushed up at her from the earth.

_Starfall._

The goddess had answered her call.

The spectacle was both beautiful and haunting. It was as if the stars themselves had lent their aid. The other elven soldiers all stopped to watch the sky, having seen this astounding feat only a few times in all of their careers.

The sky rained colossal meteors. As each hit the ground, the earth under it yielded into small craters. Remarkably, these giant spheres of energy only targeted their enemies, and each one destroyed a handful of them. The sound of their impact was tremendously loud, shaking the earth around them, and these crashes were accompanied by agonizing screams. To them it was a melody badly-needed.

The demon hunter was far into the waves of beasts when it occurred. He was about to dodge the forward lunge of one of these small-sized fiends, when a meteor crashed down onto it, surprising both of them. Feeling no need to continue, he rushed back to his sisters, perhaps to tend to any wounded ones.

As he was approaching a hilltop, he saw his group of warriors far off into a distance. Amongst all the monkey-fiends being slaughtered, either by arrow or by the wrath of Elune, a figure rushed towards the group. He looked like…him. No, he _was the demon hunter, Leçram. Then, he realized it was one of the succubus' tricks. He screamed at them, warning them, waving his hands madly. But the meteors drowned out his words and blocked off his attempts._

He watched hopelessly as one of his warriors…Shanders approached the impostor. The demon ignored her, brushing past her, heading straight for the priestess. Annoyed and perhaps playfully, she grabbed his shoulder. He stopped long enough to gouge her with the tip of his arched blades, running an extent of the weapon into her body. Horrified, Leçram's heart skipped a beat.

The others were now looking at the impostor, who pulled his blade out of the limp body and continued advancing towards the priestess. They readied their bows, but were awfully unsure of what to do.

Leçram cursed himself deeply for not remembering, and it had cost him dearly. He quickly pulled out a wand and uttered a word. A magical wave washed over the area. Then, the object crumpled into small pebbles in his hands, signifying the depletion of its power.

The impostor's disguise was stolen away by the wave of negative energy. Now comprehending, the archers let all their arrows fly. Unfortunately, the succubus had transformed into one of the monkey-like beasts in a quick puff of dark, red smoke, and the arrows only pierced the magical mist. She was quickly out of sight, disappearing under the many hills.

The real Leçram ran to meet his troupe. Relieved, he greeted them with a shout, and with the duration of the spell reached, his voice could be heard.

"Let's get out of here."

+++

They looked for the corpses of their fallen comrades, but learned that the fiends had devoured even that. With the exception of Shanders, they did not carry their dead back with them.

Drained but relieved, they went back through the passageway through the bushes, leaving their false paradise behind. They treaded slowly now, pondering the cost of victory, and the curious words that the demon had left them.

"The priestess really did it? Oh Leçram, tell me we didn't miss that."

The priestess was the first to emerge, carrying Shander's body on her shoulder. She stood up to meet the sight of…Leçram talking to her group of warriors that were left behind.

He smiled at her easily. "Good, you're back! I was wondering-"

She pushed him away firmly with one arm. The ones he was talking to were about to ask, but they saw the corpse she was holding and decided against the notion.

"Which one are you? Tell me!" she shouted hopelessly, her rage suddenly taking the better of her.

One by one the returning warriors appeared out of the bushes, and eyed this new sight with cold shock. The other demon hunter was the last to come out. But when he did, he lit up in rage.

"Deceiving swine!"

The mounted warriors were confused as ever. They readied their weapons, but simply did not know who to use them on. However, with their dense armour and fearsome panther mounts, it seemed that they were the determining factor in this encounter, the ones who will decide the outcome right now.

"He murdered Shanders!" accused the one who stayed with the priestess. The riders looked at him with doubt. _How dare you show me doubt? he roared inside his head. His grief had caused him to be easily provoked. But he realized something. Of course…the field had been working her tricks on them before the troupe returned._

"No, he is the fake!  A demon!" the other one convinced. He turned to face his double. Then he made a mistake. "_You're the one who murdered Shanders!"_

At first he opened his mouth to protest. But then he realized the truth in that statement. Yes, he did kill Shanders. And he was unfit to lead them, his abilities now were less acute. 

But first, the impostor.

"Listen to me!" the thing said again. But now he could hardly hear it. He was drowned in a sea of emotions. Then the waters turned blood red.

"The same trick will not work again!" the demon hunter raged. Then his mind burst open… as a dark cloud surrounded his body. Thin strands of electricity arched across his arms, his legs and his body…all of which expanded into demonic proportions. Dark, clouded wings gushed out from his back, and his eyes burned with a new passion.

"See? I told you he was the demon!" the thing said, grinning around with satisfaction. But they did not return his relief. Rather, they recognized this new entity for what it was: a feared ability to temporary mutate demon hunters (and only the most powerful ones could accomplish this) into terrifying demons of destruction. Rather, they watched the impostor with a look of fear, and a hint of sympathy.

"Now, kill him! Destroy his evil body!"

The powerful creature walked towards the lesser demon, his long, thick legs propelling him with frightening speed, and his tremendous weight shaking the ground with each step.

"Send him back to hell sisters, where he be-"

With his immense claw, he caught the thing's throat. Lifting it high, he stared at it with limitless hatred. As he squeezed the life out of it slowly, the intense flames on his body crept up his arm, and onto his victim. In seconds, the fiend's body was engulfed in green, searing flames. The thing screamed horribly, its male elven voice quickly changing into a low, female demonic tone as it was forced back to its true form. Even the elves were in terror as they watched the charred fiend hold its agonizing pitch.

At last,  he silenced the thing with one final grip, and it's head and body bent inwards horribly.

"A masquerade, eh? Aye, and the music has just ended."

+++

_Author's Note: Thank you for reading my prologue and getting through it. It was a long read, I admit. But more to come, I assure you._

And what did you think? Your review/reply would be greatly appreciated.

If you were a bit lost: no, Leçram is not a vampire, not here. He is a Night Elf.

Please check back for more (the main character hasn't appeared yet!), as I take us on a journey to visit interesting people and places, and to redefine the meaning of "vampire". Leave your assumptions and Warcraft impressions at the door, this is going to be good!

-Endearth


	2. Chapter 1

**_Chapter 1_**

_"If it's a dream, now wake me up,_

_if__ it's all real, just kill me."_

-Art of Life, X

+++

Marcel rummaged through the flaps of his tent, and felt the deathly quiet of the forest about him.

It wasn't entirely quiet, as he observed a pair of fellow workers in a short distance, cooking what seems like their morning meal. One of them, dark-skinned and thin, was looking intently inside the small, black cauldron, stirring and clanking the pot of contents. His partner appeared to be washing up, and both were musing over something funny.

Groaning, he flexed his joints and felt them making all sorts of weird noises around his body.

"Damn the night!" he exclaimed bitterly. That, and his weird noises seemed to catch the two's attention.

"Hey, you're going to scare away the rabbit in this pot!" he bellowed over. His buddy, who was a bit more plump and wore a much thicker wave of hair, gave a good, hearty chuckle. He ignored them and proceeded to finish dressing.

These few weeks were a bit…hectic, for all of them. Short on supplies, men, time, everything… it was just a bit short of glorious and patriotic, as that was what the poster had offered to make them. And of course, there was the money factor.

They were waved and looked up to when they left that port: men too young, too old, or too poor, but now with the new title of 'Pioneers'. Big and glorious Pioneers, serving their kingdom, serving their countrymen. Now, stranded on an island filled with nothing but trees, where did the glory go?

"Oh, where did it go," he murmured under his breath. Just as he was finished dressing, two more men joined the pair over the steaming pot. Quickly, they spotted him in the distance.

"Well, look who's finally awake!" one said.

"Did Prince Marcel have his beauty sleep?" the other mocked.

"I'll tell you what though, even a prince can't stop Beefhead from tearing him to pieces this time," the chubbier one replied resentfully. "I reckon you better run, Marcel."

_Beefhead_. He had completely forgotten. The thought brought dread to him. As loud and foolish these men were, they were right, he reckoned. He frantically put on his shoes, and ran full speed towards their working area. He had no idea what time it was, but it did not matter now. Beefhead, their leader, was going to have his head this time.

Marcel slowed to a slow walk now, approaching the camp's centre with much caution. This was where Beefhead began everyday's schedule. It's where they would all meet, except for their two soldiers, of course. They would be patrolling the camp, and rarely seen.

As he neared the big, signature fireplace, which was now dying down from the morning's meal, he observed that the area was deserted. He knew everyone was out in their designated groups, gathering wood, clearing areas or scouting the land. But Beefhead was almost always here, doing something. But now he was gone.

He looked around again, more closely this time, almost certain that Beefhead would ambush him with a club. And wouldn't that be funny? Him, being publicly humiliated in front of these lowlifes… Ha ha, jokes on you, Marcel! 

And why was he always trying to get on their good side? They were only mere peasants… peons, he had always told himself. And several times now, 'Beefhead' would do try for their respect at his expense.

_Beefhead_…what an idiotic title.

But he only saw the same low fireplace, the piles of wood, and the piece of half-eaten bread left carelessly on the grass, just as before. And just as before, no sign of their leader.

Once again, Marcel stood alone, facing the endless trees that surrounded their little encampment.

He decided to look for them, anyway. They were probably off to that new area they had recently discovered. _Well now, that lumber isn't going to cut itself, a voice said in his head. Marcel shook his head. Beefhead's stupid lines were getting to him._

What happened next was a blur of confusion and madness for him, though.

A man suddenly appeared in sight, running, as he turned a corner. Panting, and…bleeding he ran very quickly towards him.

"We're under attack!" he said, panting heavily and gasping for air. Marcel walked up to him.

"What? What manner of nonsense do you speak?"

"I ain't lying!" he pleaded. Abruptly he lunged forward and grabbed his shoulder. "You've got to come now and believe me…you!"

"Yes, yes I believe you," he replied, slightly annoyed that he didn't know his name. "Calm down and tell me what happened."

"There's no time for you to be calm! Men are dying up there!" he shouted. "Beefhead told me to hurry and rally all the men. He needs everyone to fight 'em off, he says. So take up your pick and hurry!"

"What, where?"

"Up the back-front! You know, the new place we found a couple of days ago. Apparently, they dug up something big… I got to go! You hurry!"

With that, the man sped away again.

More curious then frightened, Marcel hurried towards the area. _Something big_? he thought. Despite the man's warning, he passed by an abandoned axe without picking it up.

But when he arrived at the scene, he regretted the decision dearly.

What he witnessed then was something meant only for a military man.

They were literally slaughtered like sheep by these…bear-men. Towering over them by twice their heights, these massive creatures ripped through the men with their equally massive claws (dark, thick things that protruded out around half a metre). Each swipe was like a crash of a waterfall: these creatures were lumbering mounds of muscle, and evidently were experienced killers. Each strike was backed by a hulking yet fluid body motion.

For a moment, he just stood and watched, horrified by the _butchery_ (if there ever exists a word to describe the image). He watched the claws tear and rip through bodies protected only by mere rags, saw the claws pierce into unarmoured skulls, and bore mute witness as teeth dug into bodies, flinging them about like lifeless dummies. There was no fight here: it wasn't a two-way argument. No exchange of words took place. Instead it was a bitter lesson, with only one person lecturing the other, only one person to do the talking.

Only when he felt eyes land on him did he finally move.

He saw, for the first time, Beefhead and the other men holding up a front. He could see one soldier with the group, his armour and shield offering whatever hope they would muster. The other, he quickly noted, lay in pieces just several feet ahead.

Of all of them, only Beefhead and the two soldiers could actually fight. Beefhead was in the Alliance's Forces. A captain even, the men said. But even his skills would prove to be useless now.

Marcel found his feet carrying him towards the small crowd, even though his chances of survival were probably better if he had just ran off. They spotted him quickly, and despite the situation, cheered somewhat contently. Someone handed him an axe with a grin. _Have they gone mad already?_ he thought. Then he realized it was one of Beefhead's damned mind tricks again. But, they were as good as mad, anyway.

The bear-men finished off the others and turned upon them. The men grunted in unison, holding up their weapons with fierce looks on their faces. Marcel saw them turn from weak peasants with picks and axes…to angry barbarians, though still with picks and axes. He found himself holding his own axe stupidly. From the looks on their faces, he knew they would go willingly to their deaths if Beefhead had led them.

"Aldrac Cessius, you don' have to lead your men to death!" a voice boomed. Marcel looked down at the source and found that it came from a dwarf. _The dwarf, actually, as there was only one in their group. He wasn't really a good dwarf though, a good representation of their people that is, as he was almost always drunk, and in either state, awake or intoxicated, had an especially bad speech problem. His line came out more like 'Audrac Sisus, cherdun haftoo lea chur men todeaph!'_

No one here could understand him fully. No one except Marcel that is, whose studies back home included that of dwarves, and the nature of their native tongue. Thus he was able to make through his accent.

"What? What did you say, dwarf?" Beefhead replied, only able to make out the part with his name.

"He said you don't have to lead them-"

"I think I know what I'm doing," he cut in sternly, eyeing him, probably aware of how the sentence would have ended, and how it could have damaged their state of mind right now.

Then abruptly, Cessius smiled. "Probably should have stayed in bed today, huh?"

_So he's not going to burn my tent? he thought quickly. Then suddenly taken back, Marcel looked intently at the man's face. __Calculating bastard, Marcel thought, a little amused, as he felt the man's effects starting to work on him. _

Fairly young, having seen about 30 something years, he had a roughly shaven head and beard. His face was naturally pale and thin. Physically, their leader wasn't a frightening or imposing character. But somehow, he commanded admirably, and even their biggest crewmen were intimidated by him. _Beefhead_… the title had absolutely no relation to the man that it was almost obscurely funny. Just another one of his damned mind-working tactics.

Marcel looked at his angular face again. Yes, Cessius was a more suiting name.

Cessius clapped his shoulder and turned to face the beasts. Again, Marcel watched, dumbfounded, as he led them into battle, a shepherd (ever smiling) leading his sheep into the hungry mouths of wolves.

"C'mon 'lad," the dwarf said through the screaming. He gave the charging men one final look. "This way, quick."

"Wh-what?" he said. Then he caught on. "Surely, we can't just abandon them! I mean…where shall we go?"

"Certainly not to our deaths! That's for sure!" The men started hacking at one of the bear-men, like ants trying to overcome a beetle. "You comin' or not?"

A moment. "Yes. Sure…lead the way…" he managed to say, still in shock. The old dwarf saw his reluctance, and grabbed his arm with a grunt, muttering something under his breath.

Marcel wasn't sure where he was being taken, or whether or not the dwarf knew what he was doing. Actually, he found that he did not care for the matters much. One did not see what he saw everyday.

His mind was wandering. He thought he heard a high-pitched whisper. He had good ears, yes he did. Aye, that he did. Was the ground spinning, or was he? Female perhaps? It didn't matter.

+++

He began to regain consciousness as a rough hand smacked his cheek repeatedly. He found that he was sitting down. How much time has passed? He felt a sudden urge to snap at his provoker.

"Hey laddie, wake laddie, wake!" said a rough voice. He looked up. It was a dwarf with a wave of short, red hair, and an unkempt, thick bush of beard. "Good, yer finally awake! Been dreamin', have we?"

He muttered something and chuckled. Marcel was now more curious than dazed. Was he not afraid? This short man, has he, too, gone insane?

"Hey lad, look what I've got here? Pretty good, ya?"

He was holding a bag. He grinned as he rummaged through it, self-absorbed. From it he produced several tools, some food, thick sheets of fabric…

Marcel was again intrigued by the short, bearded man before him. Where did he get those? From camp? Moreover, he wondered if he was looking at the right dwarf. It was hard to picture this one drunk and yelling angrily at some imaginary enemy, as he was known to do.

"I reckon we've got everything under our belts…pre-tty much! Next, a place to settle the night. You agree, lad?" He was finally aware of Marcel studying him. "Quit starin' and make use of yerself! Never seen a dwarf before or somethin'?"

He did not understand. Why had this creature cared for his life? He had even insisted upon him coming along. If he had not taken him by force, he would have still stood there, with that dumbfounded look on his face, even has his body was being torn apart. The dwarf's chances of survival were increased, he presumed. But why him? Why not the others? Why?

He did understand, though. A part of him did. Back there, along with all of _them_ in their encampment, they were the loners. The only two people who sat alone during meals, the two that people either whispered jokes and cracks about, or ignored entirely. The dwarf for being a dwarf, and him for being him. He supposed it was partly his doing, but who needed to associate with people who acted so like their very own livestock?

He had helped him on several occasions. Moreover, he was almost a friend. He had sat with him during meals, and occasionally, had talked with him. For one, the dwarf to him was intriguing. He was old, had probably easily doubled all of their ages, though the respect he was shown was no such indicator. Upon closer inspection, which none of the others took the time in doing, (probably expect for Cessius, who if one didn't know well, would seem like he had 'gone the other way' from the way he studied his workers) the dwarf bore a face of pained experience and hidden knowledge. That was, when he was not drunk and had not lost control of his saliva.

Marcel thought that this was, somehow, a way of repaying him for the kindness he had shown him before. A pretty good deal, no?

+++

"Ho, ho! Look here, lad! Come, come on!" the dwarf said, gesturing wildly. "Look what I found us, eh? A perfect sleepin' place!"

Marcel approached cautiously. "Damn it Bukloc, of course it's a good sleeping place! It looks like there's a huge bear sleeping in there, ready to rip us apart if we shall ever be foolish enough to wake it! It's built by another creature, can't you see that?"

"That's Bukloc Foambeard to you lad, and yes, I have seen my share of bear dens, and I can tell you, it isn't one!"

"But you know not about the creatures here! And keep your voice down," he whispered. "Have you forgotten the manner of beasts we had encountered?"

"Of course I haven't already furgotten! What do you take me for, a bearded elf?" he said loudly. "How can anybody furget somethin' like that?"

"Didn't I just say to keep your voice down, dwarf?"

Just then, a growl emanated from the den of fallen logs and leaves.

Bukloc slowly paced back while Marcel, again, froze. From the darkness of the nest, a humanoid emerged. It was gigantic, not packing as much mass as the bear-men earlier, but tall, deathly tall, and well-muscled.

He was purple-skinned all over, wearing only a furry set of pants made from dark coats of seemingly many wolves. He was colossal, looking down on them with a dark expression. They had never seen this type of creature before, but they knew right then it wasn't a friendly species. Judging from his muscled hands and thick claws, he looked like a vicious predator.

The dwarf wasted no time, and quickly plunged into his bag for a weapon. But the creature saw this, and with speed frightening for something his size, slapped bag away.

Marcel studied its eyes. There was intelligence in this creature…and wisdom. It was very old, ancient perhaps, as there was much learned wisdom in its composure. He might have liked to study it, if the situation was different.

The thing suddenly moved from his standing position, stepping towards the dwarf. Shocked, Bukloc tried to run, but his short legs were no match for the thing's giant strides. With just a few steps, it came in reach and batted the dwarf with the back of its hand. Literally, he went flying.

Now it faced him. And as always, he froze.

A loud swishing sound broke the silence. Someone fired an arrow, and it hit the thing on one of the horns on its head. It didn't seem to suffer any pain from it, but nevertheless, it looked very annoyed.

They looked at the source of the projectile, and to both of their surprises, they were surrounded by archers, mounted on the tree branches, their height camouflaging them.

They were elves, all female, except their skin bore a foreign hue, and their features were different from what Marcel was used to at home. One of the warriors spoke quickly.

"We do not want any trouble Satyr, just let the human pass. He means no harm," she said. Both Marcel and the creature looked up at her. Her garment was different from all of theirs, he noticed. She wore a silvery cloak, quite decorative, while the rest wore dark ones, probably suited for better cover in the dark.

Besides looking distinctive, he noticed she was strikingly beautiful. Though her face was hinting of age, her features were small and delicate, much more refined than anything he had seen. Sure, he knew elves were innately more pleasant than humans, but this was something else. He looked to the other elves to see if it was a racial thing. And although all of them had attractive features, it seemed that she was much prettier than the rest. As he stole another glance at her, he felt his heart pulse.

The thing laughed quietly in response. "I know he means no harm, I just thought his skin would make a good scarf."

He shuddered, then turned to see her response. She seemed to have ignored him, and proceeded to slide down the tall trunk carefully. The rest followed suit.

A few of the elves helped Bukloc to his feet, and the rest, including her, headed towards him. He studied their expressionless faces. He stole another glance at her again as they came close.

"Follow me, human," she said in a slightly demeaning manner. He caught himself taking the order wordlessly.

Shocked, he stopped in his tracks. He replied, quite timidly, "Who are you creatures? And why do you speak my tongue?"

She quickly grabbed him and ushered him onward. She was evidently smaller than him, yet her strength surprised him. He was even more surprised by her abruptness. Her touch… even through her glove and his garment, sent a sensation through his body.

As he was about to pose another question, she quickly turned around and steadied her bow. Apparently the satyr had conjured up a snake from his clutch, and had launched it at their backs. And apparently, she had shot it out of the air, where it exploded into shreds.

"By gods, how did you do that?" he exclaimed.

She looked at him, and smiled sadly. "If you had been holding a bow for centuries, you too would be able to shoot like this." Then she turned and shouted something to the satyr in a foreign tongue, who in turn went back to his den.

He knew elves lived a longer time than humans, but… centuries? Then, he studied these elves, and knew that they were not simply just another species of intelligent beings, but ancient creatures far beyond him. They were definitely not equals (perhaps the dwarf and them came closer), and he felt foolish, and childish next to these old beings.

Yet his initial question still stands. Why had they come to his rescue? It had been twice already that his life had been saved today by unexpected friends.

Friends? No, to her he must only be an inferior being.

+++

After a long, silent walk, they departed, as abruptly as they had appeared. The walk was uneventful, and they brushed off most questions he had for them, somewhat politely, but leaving him more unsatisfied than before.

They had left him instructions, how to get back to their docked ship, and areas and habitants to avoid. But these mattered little to Marcel.

Throughout their wordless hike, he had studied them, specifically the priestess (as he heard them address her so). A great deal of things went through his mind. He gathered a little background information from studying their garments and ornaments, but these were only assumptions. Most of the time though, he was looking intently at her. 

Her composure was one of confidence, experience (almost boredom) and absolute command. Several times she would return his gaze, expressionless, which would cause him to look away nervously. Then, the process would be repeated. He thought he caught a few smirks from the others.

But now he sat on a rock, left with his thoughts and a half-dead dwarf. The whole instance was such a blur that it left him wondering if those strange elves were ever here at all. The total stillness of the forest was no help, either. But then he only had to listen to his heartbeat for the answer.

+++

"Let's move it, dwarf! Come on, let's go!"

"Erm… ya sure? Didn't those folks say to head down ther?"

"Since when did you listen to a bunch of damned elves? And women, Bukloc! Women!"

A little taken back, the dwarf eyed him with a tired expression. Then he smiled, "Aye! I may have been smacked around a 'lil bit today, but I ain't mad yet!"

Right then, something dawned on him. He had finally comprehended the feeling he'd always had ever since he'd set foot on the island: it was one of being watched.

"So where are we going, lad?"

"On an adventure, my friend."

"Ha! Sounds good t'me!"

He caught himself descending into a cave-like tunnel, leading underground and into complete darkness.

"What are we goin' down ther fer? Y'know, one more smack and I'm done for, lad."

He caught himself looking for danger, so they might show up to save him.

He stood at the entrance, looking down into the tunnel. Then he looked up and around him, checking to see if they were anywhere in sight. No, but he knew they were there, hidden too well for his eyes. He knew.

He caught himself going in. He would do anything to be able to see her again.

+++

_Author's Note: Finally, the first chapter. It has been a long time, but it feels good to be back._

Firstly, I feel I must express my thanks and deep appreciation for those few faithful ones keeping with me. Thank you.

Secondly, I ask of you to tell me- what the hell is wrong? To me, there is something dull and unexciting about this, something either missing or terribly wrong with my entries so far. If you didn't catch it, good. But if you share my sentiments, great, and share your thoughts.

Sincerely,

Endearth


	3. Chapter 2

**_Chapter 2_******

_"Drink from me, and live forever."_

-The vampire Lestat

+++

They stepped into a room of another place, another time. 

Down a steep slope and in utter darkness, they suddenly stumbled upon another world.

The room had a traditional, classy feel about it. Dark, expensive silk and curtains laid everywhere. There were golden vases and other unrecognizable containers, all glimmering in the dim candlelight. A few lavish paintings were hung, one of a man, one of a ship at sea, one of a harbour. They were in a style which had…a disorganized kind of beauty to it, unlike the traditional clarity and detail he was used to. The style of painting might have been rejected by some. It was like viewing something through the foggy eyes of an old man. Yet, somehow these paintings captured beauty unlike anything he had seen before.

He made his way across the…tiled floor. It had been awhile since he had felt the hardness of stone beneath his boots. It both comforted and confused him. What is this place? Is this some cruel joke? Has the entire expedition been some test set out by his wealthy father?

"Ack, I didn't think I hit my head dat badly," the dwarf said sleepily. He blinked his eyes several times, then rubbed them roughly. However, he had a determined look on his face. "Nay, I've learned to trust me eyes over the yeers. Tell me lad, what is this place?"

He hesitated. "The home of a wealthy, wealthy lord, Bukloc. A human lord, that is." He noticed the thin, white candles that were set on delicate, silver stands, and saw that the place was not laden with dust, but actually very clean. "From the looks of it, he might still be here! We might just be in luck, dwarf!"

He proceeded farther into the room, with an expression that was like a child in awe in a candy store. This reminded him of home. Yes, wonderfully so. He noticed a book of poems by a poet he had enjoyed during his school years, and smiled to himself. Ah, a man of taste. He liked him already.

The dwarf joined him. "But don't yer think it's a bit strange, laddie? This island is supposed to be new…just discovered! No man lives here! I think this is foul magic, that's what I say!"

Marcel regarded him seriously. "I don't care if it's fair or foul, dwarf. Now, I just want a nice plate of chicken…maybe some veggies to go with it. I'm sick of rabbit and mice, and leaves that leave your mouth tasting like dung! Alcohol that is meant for machinery! Bread that is meant for wiping your own arse!"

"Hey, I liked that honey ale!"

"It's supposed be grape wine! That's how cheap it was!" He tilted his head, as if hearing something. More calmly, he continued, "Besides, it's uncharted by us. It could very well be an established colony of the other kingdoms. You know how communication is between them. Remember that time you heard about your niece's funeral _after_ her daughter's? Yes, of course you do. Now come!"

With that, he wandered into a hallway, eager to meet the other wonders this place had to offer.

Once again, he was surprised as he stepped through the doorway.

Was it a room? Could you call it that?

It was more like a…recital hall, or a theatre, though that was clearly not its function. It was huge, with a ceiling that reached around three storeys up, and a floor that was vast, expanding miles outward. At one end of the room was a throne, one with an expensive set of marble staircase. It was lined with red velvet, but he noticed the red had a dark look to it, that of damp material.

On it sat a man in his thirties, with attire that showed wealth, status and taste. He noticed his hair was combed neatly, which was more than anything he had seen lately.

Again, he looked at the throne, and noticed it was made from pure silver. At one hand was carved a griffon, and at the other sat an animal that he didn't recognize. He noticed the long, slender sword that leaned easily against the metallic seat.

The man's voice was low and powerful. "Sir Lothar of Azeroth. This was the chair on which he commanded his legions during the first war between the orcs and the humans. Impressive, wouldn't you say? You may touch it if you like." His laughter was easy and soothing.

_An educated man. Marcel was wondering if he was joking or not. He knew his history, that much was clear._

Most people did not meet anything more than an elf or a dwarf in their lives, let alone orcs. Surely, even sighting _legends_ like Lothar was an opportunity of a dozen lifetimes. But sitting on his throne? And since when did the great Lothar have his castle on some isolated island?

Normally he would play along with the joke. But he did not want to offend this stranger, who seemed to be a man of great status, and who would ultimately be the one to provide him his chicken and veggies. Ah, to eat on a tabletop again, and with a knife and fork!

So he simply smiled politely, and extended his hand.

"My name is Marcel, and my friend behind me is Bukloc."

The man looked at his hand and smirked peculiarly. "Welcome, my prince. I have waited for you for quite some time now."

At his strange remark, he felt awkward, and began taking back his hand. However, the man grabbed his hand with a speed and weight that seemed as strange as his words. He laughed again, with more humour this time. But his grip felt cold, like stone.

"Come, Marcel. If you are as hungry as I, then you wouldn't want to miss the fine meal that I have prepared for us."

Who is this strange man? What is this place?

They couldn't refuse the invitation, and decided to follow.

Suddenly, the man stopped dead in his tracks. Too late. Marcel bumped into his back with full force, but the man didn't bulge. It felt something like walking into a stone wall. He did not look it, but judging from that, the man carried much strength. Did he hunt as a hobby? Was he an outdoorsman? Perhaps enjoys talking daily horse rides through the terrain? Most likely, he was marksman, stalking prey everyday for sport. Well, how else would you explain such solidity?

He didn't look it, as from what Marcel saw, he seemed more of the type of patron to indulge in his studies constantly, spending day after day in his library, never having time to participate in much physically demanding activities. Yes, that description fitted him better. His clothing, his paintings, his poems…it made more sense.

The man seemed not to notice Marcel running into him. He was busy with something else.

Amazed and taken by surprise, Marcel peered over the man's shoulder to find a stone giant. It was a humanoid made from solid rocks. He had read about this, these magical entities were called golems. This one was a rock golem, to be specific, and it was amazing beyond comprehension. Only true mages who practised magic readily could summon and exert control over something such as this. He had read about them, read about horrifying instances where young mages had lost control of them and as a result, had these strong, solid beings turn on them.

He had read about them, but never had the chance to actually see one with his eyes. This one seemed under control, he thought. It even had a mouth! That was peculiar, and even more impressive.

"What?" the man said impatiently, and it sounded somewhat demeaning.

"Master," the golem began, his jagged mouth closing and opening like that of a real man. "We have intruders."

He seemed to be deep in thought. "Do you recognize them?" Could such a thing recognize people?

"Yes, it is Sebbman and his minions. With him he has brought elves."

The man suddenly lost his calm and exploded, though it was still a contained kind of outburst. "Damn! Not now!" A pause. "I shall have to get rid of that Sebbman…" Then he was quiet again, in thought.

"Come, Marcel and Bukloc. Come!" He hurried through the dim hallway as the golem stepped aside to let them through. Then it followed them, taking the rear, forcing both of them to keep forward, with the fear of being crushed by those incredible boulders.

Finally they reached another room, a little lighter than the dark, vast hallway from which they came. There was no conventional light source, and Marcel observed that the room was lit only by the faint, red glows that emanated from all about the room.

Under each red glow was a circular pad, with runes and designs that were foreign to him. Yet he knew that they were some type of portal device. Perhaps they allowed instant transportation, as it was a common concept amongst magical users, from what he heard. However, these were somehow different from what he had learned about. For one, they gave off red sparks of light. As impressive as they looked to him, he didn't trust them.

This was some sort of portal room, he concluded, where he could access different parts of this place. It must be a fortress then, if its master required a chamber just to be able to travel to its different parts. Exactly how big is this place?

"Make sure he gets to Solace. Then, when he is through," he paused, "guard the way so they can't reach him. Make sure of this! They mustn't reach him!"

The golem retained its expressionless face, and showed no sign of acknowledgement. But the man didn't seem to notice. Instead, he focused on Marcel with a troubled expression, and stepped forward.

For the first time, he saw the man's face clearly. It was very pale, very white, as if he had just seen a ghost. But besides that, his features were smooth, perfect. His skin looked smooth, and his hair was neat and had a smart look about it. His eyes…were commanding, a little troubled, but seemed to show content. It was an educated image, a look of wisdom and intelligence.

However, all these things didn't truly describe him. What was the word?

Timeless. The man was timeless, whatever that meant. Yet it seemed to fit. He seemed to be unaffected by time, and the burdens of reality. His expression was so perfect that he seemed like a statue, a perfect sculpture, unchanged by the wear and tear of age. He was a man removed from the world, dwelling alone in his home at a small corner of the universe.

He moved towards him, appearing to do something but stopped. Then he eyed the dwarf behind them.

"Mr. Dwarf, please excuse us for a second. Would you so kindly step in through that portal beside you? Yes, that one."

"I ain't steppin' through sum-"

The man snapped again. Grunting impatiently, and bearing his teeth, he lunged forward, grabbed the dwarf, and threw him onto the magical pad with a strength that seemed unnatural.

Then he faced Marcel again, composed.

"Please forgive me, my prince," he began. "It was meant to be better than this."

What? What is supposed be better?

"But I'm afraid this must do now, for something came up, as you can see. I must attend to some errands, so please forgive me."

Marcel was about to open his mouth to question, but the man hissed. He clenched his teeth to reveal…fangs of some sort. Long fangs that looked sharp. Without a moment's delay, he snapped his muscles with a lightning motion, and sunk his teeth into his neck area.

Horrified, Marcel stood helplessly as he felt his life being drained out of him. He felt the warmth leave his body, the heat leaving his arms, his legs, his face, his fingertips and leaving with his blood. What is one supposed to think at a moment like this? He regarded the golem that just stood there, watching them quietly. 

Help me! he screamed in his mind. Get this man off of me! What is he doing to me? 

I feel so helpless…

Innocence.

+++
    
    _I wandered lonely as a cloud_
    
    _That floats on high o'er vales and hills,_
    
    _When all at once I saw a crowd,_
    
    _A host, of golden daffodils;_
    
    _Beside the lake, beneath the trees,_
    
    _Fluttering and dancing in the breeze..._
    
                   -William Wordsworth
    
    +++


End file.
